


i can see the sun in late december

by robpatFF



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 07:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robpatFF/pseuds/robpatFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt: <i>it's cold in ireland and zayn is all skin and bones and niall is all extra blankets and warmth and kisses (basically lazy kissing under the covers fic)</i> and then this happened</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can see the sun in late december

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badjujuboo (miztrezboo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/gifts).



> Thanks to [hostagesfic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/) for checking this over and being generally lovely.

\-----

ireland’s fucking cold, is the thing.

the pints warm him up, despite the chill every time the pub doors open and another person that niall seems to know shoves into their overcrowded table by the front. niall moves closer, his skin warm against zayn’s and his cheeks flushed red about three drinks back. zayn likes him like this, open and loud and squinty-eyed, his accent rolling over zayn in waves and his hair falling limp against his forehead.

“you havin’ fun?” niall asks, and it’s the quietest he’s been all night and the words are meant just for zayn, settling neatly between the two of them. “not too much for you?”

zayn snorts. the pub is absolutely packed, bodies in every corner, hands fumbling against the clinking glasses and the air smells like smoke and chips and that strong sort of liquor zayn can’t quite stomach. “nah, not too much.”

the streets are quiet when they walk back. there’s snow overhead, falling wet against their jackets and the flakes settle in niall’s hair, wet and slushy. 

“feckin’ feels like rain,” niall grumbles, and he flicks the snowflakes off the tip of his nose, shakes them out of his hair. “it probably won’t even stick.”

zayn looks up at the sky. it’s dark out, the hour gone later than they’d realized when they’d come out for the night. 

(just a few pints, niall had said, but it’s been four hours and zayn’s only in a hoodie he nicked off liam at the airport a few days back and he can feel the cold and snow seeping through his shoes)

“cold enough for it, maybe,” zayn says. his teeth chatter a bit, his jaw clamping down against the chill in the air and the distance between him and niall’s body. niall’s only in a hoodie too, but he seems fine. warm, even. zayn envies him. “ _really_ cold.”

niall laughs and nudges zayn’s shoulder. they’re clumsy from too many drinks and too little to eat, and niall stumbles into him, his giggles getting lost somewhere in zayn’s neck and the thin collar of his t-shirt. “you’re freezing, you know,” he points out. “it’s ‘cause your arse is so skinny.”

“oh yeah?”

“mhm,” niall mumbles. he leans into zayn a bit more, tangles their arms together and pulls zayn to walk a little faster. “want me to warm you up?”

“here?”

“back at the house,” niall tells him. “we’ll get out the heater and a few of the blankets mum keeps in the cupboard.”

zayn nods. niall’s weight is warm next to him, liquor-heavy limbs pressed up tight together and it’s still cold but niall is solid and heat and his mouth is hot against zayn’s neck. 

“my arse is not skinny,” he remembers to say. “you like it.”

“i do.” 

“can we have tea, too?”

niall fumbles with his keys, loud in the lock and they try not to laugh as they stumble in the house, quiet and dark and still. niall grabs his hand and they fall into the kitchen somehow, the lights too bright compared to the dim light of the pub and the dark streets they’ve walked through.

the flush in niall’s cheeks spreads to his neck and his chest and zayn follows it as niall moves around the kitchen, too loud and too clumsy. his hair’s a mess, curling around his ears and his forehead, wet and dark and he’s cute, zayn thinks. like this. 

“do we even have tea?” niall asks. he’s opened about three cupboards already, clanging them shut and zayn wonders how no one’s woken up yet, loud as they are. “have you seen the tea?”

it’s behind the toaster, actually, they discover. niall cheers and does some sort of victory dance, spinning zayn round the countertop until he’s dizzy and laughing and out of breath, a bit. they’re drunk, he realizes, about an hour too late. 

niall pours a bit of bourbon into their mugs. 

(“it’ll warm you up,” he swears.

“it’ll make me easy,” says zayn. he sips it anyway, winces at the burn but relishes in the heat in his chest, the warmth that flows out to his arms and the tips of his fingers. “’m already drunk.”

niall snorts, presses his face close and nips zayn’s jaw, his nose, his mouth. “you’re already easy.”

“for you, yeah,” zayn agrees.)

they settle on the couch in the living room. 

“friends is on,” niall says, and he moves back and lets zayn rest on top of him, too close together and zayn’s chin propped up on niall’s collarbones. it hurts probably, but niall won’t say anything and zayn’s too lazy to move. “can’t believe they ate cheesecake off the floor,” he murmurs.

“you’d do it,” zayn points out.

“depends on what kind of cheesecake.”

the bourbon does warm zayn up, makes his face numb and his eyes droop a bit. the blankets warm him up too. they have that closed up smell, like they’ve been folded up and stuffed in that cupboard for too long. but they smell like niall too. like niall’s mum and sleep and laundry a little, if he presses his face against them and inhales. 

“weirdo,” niall says, and zayn headbutts him until his tea sloshes over a bit on his fingers. “and an arsehole.”

friends comes on again, then niall jostles him to put in season two of one tree hill. 

(“louis give you this?”

“for christmas last year, i think.”

“figures.”)

zayn’s not sure when he falls asleep, but it’s some time after niall takes the mug out of his limp grip and sets it on the floor. maybe after he feels himself being dragged towards the bedroom and

“thought you said i was skinny,” he mumbles.

“not _that_ skinny,” niall grumbles back but he supports zayn’s weight a little more, huffs a little with how out of breath he is by the time he drops zayn into his twin bed and collapses next to him. “too drunk for this.”

zayn probably falls asleep some time after that, niall murmuring something about his shoes and his jeans but zayn’s tired and drunk and warm for now (from the blankets niall’s kept him wrapped up in and niall’s skin sticking close and the bourbon coursing through his blood).

\-----

there’s ice frosting the glass when zayn blinks his eyes open. little patterns and swirls of white that burn bright against zayn’s eyelids. “too early,” he mumbles to himself, shoves his face back into the pillow and sighs. 

he can feel niall pressed up behind him, sleep-heavy and soft but he’s hard against zayn’s hip. zayn moves back against it, lazy, and listens for niall’s waking groans, the way he shoves his hips closer before he’s fully aware.

“wake up and fuck me,” zayn murmurs, just to hear niall’s rumbly little laugh, how hoarse his voice sounds with the early hour. the dance of his fingers against zayn’s bare skin. “you got me naked last night.”

“you’re welcome.”

“i’m _cold_ ,” zayn corrects. “warm me up, nialler?” 

he’s cheating a little, because niall’s useless in the morning and zayn didn’t have nearly as much to drink. he grinds back and huffs out a laugh when niall’s grip tightens on his hip. zayn keeps going though, not thinking of how ridiculous he might look. he’s only thinking of the goosebumps on his arms and the chill from outside and how warm niall feels against his back and zayn _wants_. 

niall shifts, pulls against zayn’s shoulder until they’re facing each other and blinking away sleep. niall kisses him, and he tastes bitter, like stale liquor and settling tea and sleep. but zayn presses their mouths together, until he can only taste niall underneath it all, their mouths moving lazy and slow.

“come on,” zayn says, and he pushes their hips together, both of them hard and niall curses and pushes at zayn again til he’s on his back and niall is staring down at him, eyelids low and his mouth bitten pink. “warm me up.”

zayn hums in appreciation when niall wraps a hand around him, but his palm’s dry and zayn wants more. he slides his briefs down, kisses away the smile niall gives him and concentrates on getting them naked. 

it’s slow and it’s lazy and niall doesn’t even let his feet touch the ground as he’s rooting around in his drawer for lube. 

(“did we leave it in here?”

“dunno,” zayn shrugs. “hurry up, would you.”

“it’s hard to reach.”

“maybe try getting up, then.”

“it’s _cold_.”)

then it’s niall’s slick fingers in zayn’s arse, pressing in one. then two. stretching against the burn zayn feels. the pressure and the _ohgodohgodohgod_ until he’s arching up into it, til niall’s fit three and zayn moans into his neck, bites the skin until it leaves a red mark and then another. 

“’m ready.” he’s saying. and niall is laughing, quiet and sleepy. his fingers slip around the condom and he laughs at that too, muffled against zayn’s skin and heavy in the silence of the room. 

zayn forgets about the cold, forgets about the frost on the windows and the blankets bunched up around their feet when niall pushes in, again and again and it’s too slow and too fast and niall’s hot above him, against him.

zayn’s fingers clench in the bedsheets. his back arches and his neck does too and he’s mumbling something, curses or praises or maybe that’s niall’s name falling from his lips, tumbling out with every press of niall deep inside him. too much heat and niall’s fingers burn when they touch him, touch his hipbones and his thighs and his cock, his fingers curling around it and pulling, stroking until zayn’s falling apart

and

niall’s right there. skin flushed and he gasps into zayn’s neck, kisses the skin and grips zayn too tight as he comes, trembling and shaking and his eyes are clenched shut. zayn waits for him to come down, waits til niall’s still above him, a heavy but comfortable weight and he murmurs, “love you,” somewhere near niall’s ear and niall mumbles it back, halfway back to sleep again.

they clean up lazy, falling against each other in the shower. niall washes zayn’s hair, kisses behind his ears and the back of his neck and the knobs of his spine when zayn arches away from the touch. zayn returns the favor. sticks niall’s hair up into a mohawk and kisses his nose and wipes away the shampoo that falls into his eyes.

“lookin’ good,” he says, and niall’s elbow is sharp against his ribs but he laughs anyway.

they left the tea out on the counter, left their mugs littered on the floor in front the couch. niall cleans it up and lets zayn lay on the couch, blankets wrapped around him again and he’s almost close to resembling something warm again. maybe. 

niall makes them fresh mugs of tea. sweet-flavoured from too much sugar and honey. he slips in underneath zayn again, and they watch scooby-doo, then a documentary on russian csars, then eventually one tree hill again

(“don’t tell louis this is a good show.”)

until zayn’s drifting off again, sleepy and sated and content.

ireland’s cold outside, ice clinging to the glass and snowflakes drifting against the pavement. but niall’s warm. soft and silly and quiet when he shifts the blankets so they’re both covered.

zayn doesn’t know when he falls asleep again, but he’s warm.

\-----


End file.
